


Vespa Crabro

by ChelseaMouse



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Arguing, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Exploding pens, Fluff, Hornets, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Q cares a lot, Sexual Tension, and he also swears, because of course there would be exploding pens, but they're cute - Freeform, cute and fluffy feelings, so I guess it's ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelseaMouse/pseuds/ChelseaMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The danger is in the job description, Q. We are very well aware of the risks...”</p><p>“Bullshit. My job description is to minimize those risks. I'm not the one who sends you away, Bond, I'm the one who's supposed to bring you back."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vespa Crabro

The agent is prepared for The Talk. It's always an unpleasant matter to address, but coming home from his latest mission and meeting his beloved Quartermaster in Medical because he collapsed right after ensuring he got on his flight back to England it's kind of a mood-killer, and the drive home had been a very tense one.

“We talked about this, Q.” He starts the moment they step inside Q's flat. Their flat. The flat. He still has trouble addressing the place, even in his mind.

“I don't recall anything of the sort.” Q snaps him out of his thoughts with his dry tone.

“Of course you don't. You probably were busy overworking yourself.”

The young man lets out a dramatic sight. “Seriously, James, it's hardly that. I'm fine...”

“You passed out, for God's sake!”

“Yes, then I took a couple of hours to nap, I had a whole packet of chocolate digestives with my Earl Grey and now I'm perfectly fine.”

“I'm pretty sure this is the lamest epitaph ever.” Bond quips flatly.

“James, I have to be always available, especially when double-ohs are out there taking down the bad guys.”

“I get that, but you could stop from time to time to eat and sleep.”

“I can hardly be of any help if I'm not there.”

“You can hardly be of any help if you are too tired or too weak to think properly.” That's a low blow, because Q's performances never actually worsened, and James knows it even before the words are out. But his lover is already too thin for his liking, and lately he also started to show two very not reassuring black circles around is dephtless green eyes.

“What if something happens and you need me?” he asks in a small voice.

“You put a minion on it while you rest. He can warn you right away if things go tits up.”

Q glares at that. “You hate talking to the minions, all of you.” he says, as if Bond should know better than to suggest some things. He probably should.

“Put R on it.”

R, with her no-nonsense tone and her deep voice, is actually pretty well-liked by the field agents. Even the double-ohs, who are notoriously picky in these kind of things ("spoiled brats" are the words usually used by Moneypenny if asked), seem to appreciate her brisk and efficient ways. Q just shots him a knowing smirk.

“What if it's you?”

Bond grimaces and tries to defend himself. “I get along with R.”

“Except the fact that it's not R you want to hear when out in some godforsaken place in some absurd mission!” 

_OK, that came out a little lounder than I expected._ Q ponders without giving away anything. He really doesn't like the helpless feeling he gets all too often when dealing with double-ohs on mission, and he likes it even less when they endanger themselves gratuitously.

During his (admittedly short) time as Quartermaster he had to listen to some pretty awful stuff, but his worst memory is without a doubt when 003 once said he didn't need the earpiece for one particular encounter with some drug lord in Bolivia: the last they got of him was the steady beat of his pulse broadcast from his tracker going flatline -the retrieval team found his body only the day after. Q can't help but still feel guilty, because had he been there maybe he could have done something. Even only listening to his last words and moments could have been of some help, but nobody had been there. The young man still has nightmares about that op.

“Well, I'll learn to cope!” James' exasperated voice takes him back to reality. “You hit the keyboard with your head, Q. Medical thought you might had a concussion!”

“And look at you, finally taking into serious consideration their advice!”

“It's not the same, Q, and you know it!”

“No, I don't actually. Why don't you enlighten me?”

“I'm a field agent, just for starters. I know my limits!”

“You do, and you ignore them _every. single. time._ ”

“Q, listen...”

“No, you listen: how the fucking Hell am I supposed to get my beauty sleep if one of you is out there risking his life for Queen and Country? _'Oh, sorry, the Quartermaster is not available right now, he's out to dinner: please leave a message.'_ How does that sound? Of course I could just ask the terrorist you are chasing down to take a nice long night of rest, assuring you won't kill him during that time -that should work well, what do you think?”

“The danger is in the job description, Q. We are very well aware of the risks...”

“Bullshit. My job description is to minimize those risks. I'm not the one who sends you away, Bond, I'm the one who's supposed to bring you back. And you get a better chance to freeze on the burning hills of Hell than to...” Q interrupts the ranting abruptly, focusing his gaze on something on the wall behind James' left shoulder.

If you ever asked James Bond, agent 007 of Her Majesty's Secret Services, what is it that he fears the most, he would probably put on a bold, nonchalant smile and answer “Nothing.”, his mind rapidly going to the image of a bloody, lifeless Q he didn't get to save.

If you ever asked Q, the youngest Quartermaster ever of Her Majesty's Secret Services, what is it that James Bond fears the most, he would probably keep his carefully blank expression and answer “A new prohibitionist era.”, his mind overflowing with images of dead people and the crushing feeling of solitude and depression.

So he is most certainly not scared of hornets (not even of those huge beasts he once saw in Japan and gave him shudders); but the thought of an insect bigger than a bullet, with its buzzing noise and that purposeful way of flying it has, do make him kind of squeamish.

The sudden silence from Q's part for no apparent reason actually worries the double-oh, who is just about to ask what's wrong when two gentle fingers brush his lips in a motion as if to say “Don't talk”. For once, Bond complies and just stays there as a support for Q while he tries to balance on one foot to get a shoe off. Then, always in utter silence, the Quartermaster moves towards the wall in catlike strides, and Bond turns around, curious about what's happening.

His boyfriend's loading his “armed” hand is the only warning he gets before a loud CRACK! resounds through the flat.

Feeling like the fraught moment is over, he steps near the dark haired man and watches in something akin to awe the dead body of the pretty damn gigantic hornet that somehow sneaked his way inside the living room.

“Where were we?” asks Q, now sounding all-business like.

James is dumbstruck. “You had the winning argument.”, he admits softly.

If Q is surprised from this, he makes an admirable job of hiding it. “I know.”

“You interrupted your winnig argument.”

“There was a hornet in the room.” Q says, as if that explains it all.

“I don't like hornets.”

“I know.”

There is a pause in which they both look the other in the eyes, and then James blurts out: “I think I love you.”

At this, Q is definitely surprised. “Because I killed a hornet for you?”

“Because you interrupted your winning argument to kill a hornet for me.” corrects James smiling.

“Oh.” Q's brain is scrambling, searching desperately for something to say, but he is completely blank. He settled his heart quite some time before on not expecting anything of the sort, because of their crazy jobs, and life is short, and James underwent really a lot of emotional damage through the years, his willingly joining this relationship thing is already a big deal, and _for fuck's sake did he just said he loves me?!_

Apparently he also lost his natural poker face, because James is grinning widely ( _smug bastard_ ) as if he knows perfectly well what the other man is thinking. “Hey, I got to shut you up!” he jokes. “Does that mean I won?”

“You wish.” The dry answer comes out on its own, as if going on autopilot. The blond agent's grin, if possible, spreads even wider. It makes Q want to grab him from his precious silk tie and kiss it away, and he is only mildly surprised when he registers he is doing just that.

There is another moment of almost total silence, during which their eternal battle is on once again: it's a battle of raw passion and arguments, and worry, and kisses that are all teeth and tongues, feral just enough to make this feel brilliant. Q's free hand gets caught in Bond's trousers waistband pulling nearer and nearer until they are hip to hip, while one of the other man's hands goes to the nape of his neck, playing with the soft hair there, and the other to his arse, grabbing and kneading unapologetically. Q wriggles, unsure as to push against the hand on his bottom or the surprisingly soft lips on his jaw. He pushes James against the wall and tries to do both, getting a chuckle that is more of a rumble for his efforts.

“Say that again.” is the first thing he says the moment they pull apart to get some air, leaning both hands over his lover's broad chest as if to smooth some non existent rumples on the pristine white shirt.

“I love you.” is James' slightly breathless answer, almost lost in Q's neck where he is nipping and sucking at the junction with his shoulder. Apparently his definitely not pristine and quite not white anymore shirt lost a couple of buttons, but that's not really a concern right now.

 _It sounds more like a challenge than a love confession_ , Q realises. “Again.” he repeats.

“I love you.” Now James is lavishing attention to his collarbone, and the ability to focus is getting more and more elusive.

“You said it three times.” He has some kind of finality in his voice. “I swear to God, James, if this is some kind of elaborate ruse to make me drop the subject you can also say a merry fucking goodbye to the exploding pen I am preparing for your goddamn birthday...”

“You are preparing an exploding pen for my birthday?” James abruptly stops his ministrations to look Q in the eyes, and that's all the young genius can do to avoiding whining at the loss. But the blonde's scrutiny is serious, and at this point Q is all but pouting, a lovely shade of dark pink spreading over his cheeks and neck. Bond finds it ridicolously endearing.

“A refined and improved version of your beloved exploding pen, thank you very much.”

“You hate those kind of gadgets.”

“You don't.”

“But... why?”

Q refuses to blush anymore than this, which is why he pulls away and stomps toward the kitchen. “Oh, my God, you are so dense!”

James smirks to himself and follows him. “Why, Quartermaster, is there something I should grasp? A hidden meaning, maybe?”

Q huffs and starts the kettle.

“Because if I were to read something in this... well, I'd probably start believing you harbour some feelings of deep affection for me...”

“Deep affection my arse.” Q mutters busying his hands with teabags.

James continues as if he hasn't heard. “Yes, because, you see, it demonstrates you care about my feelings and whishes... and that's dangerously near the realm of -”

“Oh, shut it.” Q snaps blushing furiously.

James takes a deep breath and crowds Q from behind against the counter. “Do you love me, Quartermaster?” he asks in that husky voice of his, and _damn it!_ if it doesn't sound like sex wrapped up in velvet.

Q steels himself against the countertop and grumbles a hoarse “Figure it out for yourself!”

“Do you love me, Q?” he asks again, and this time his mouth is exactly beside his ear, and his tongue starts playing with his lobe, and _Christ Jesus fuck!_ he is now biting softly in a way the bastard knows Q really can't help.

“Do you love me...?” he asks for the third time, this time a barely udible murmur, as if it's a secret, and he adds a name, his name, the name they never use because they can't but they both know, just like they both know what it means that Bond is the only one privy to that particular secret aside from M and Tanner.

Q turns abruptly and hids his face under the agent jaw. “Of course I love you, you sly bastard! And you know it, I've been telling you almost every night for a month or so right before sleep... and I am perfectly aware that you were awake, I know your sleep breathing pattern!”

Bond would like to make some witty comment, but he decides to just keep petting his young lover's hair in silence. His voice would probably give away the fact that he is overwhelmed with joy, anyway.

 _He *loves* me_ , he can't help but think, swelling with pride. _How cool is that?_

**Author's Note:**

> oh, wow, this fandom... yesterday night the plot bunny got me and wouldn't leave me alone until I started writing this down. a sleepless night and a couple thousands words after, we get this. did you liked it?
> 
> if so, please find the time to comment and/or kudo (is this even a verb? O_o)!
> 
> if not, please point out in a really quick comment what you didn't like, so that I can get better?
> 
> anyway, I am my own beta, and I'm an italian sleep deprived fangirl, so if you find mistakes of any kind, I would appreciate incredibly you telling me. grammar nazis, I'm talking to you!! I'm sure you are out there! ;)  
> the same goes for the britpick: I will gladly welcome any correction to make this more believable :)
> 
> and THANK YOU so very much for reading... you are all wonderful!!


End file.
